


He Sleeps In The Hollow Log

by rocketpool



Category: Leverage
Genre: M/M, because sometimes you hurt your characters, cross-posted from LJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-02
Updated: 2009-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old mark's got his hands on Eliot, but help is on the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Sleeps In The Hollow Log

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://earthquakedream.livejournal.com/profile)[**earthquakedream**](http://earthquakedream.livejournal.com/)'s birthday. It's been a blast, darlin', and I hope your day treated you well. And I'm sorry this is late! As per her request, "hurt!Eliot, h/c, Nate/Eliot". Set just after season one.

 

  
The door to his tiny, dark cell clangs open. Eliot doesn't move. He isn't sure anymore if it's because he's too hurt to offer up better resistance, is saving his strength for another escape attempt, or if it's because he's finally, actually given up. The two thugs drag him out by his heels, ignoring the way he hisses and groans when the welts on his back and his bruised and broken ribs and scrape across the cobbles. And then they haul him up, arms under his shoulders to give the illusion that he's standing. His legs probably wouldn't hold him up right now anyway.

Eliot's starting to miss Sophie's acting.

He chuffs out a laugh at himself, feels like he must be going mad from the torture. Eliot was certain that once upon a time, he'd prefer cigarette butts burning into his arms, guns pressed to his temples, being fucking water-boarded, and a host of other things to being forced to the bitch's butchered lines and arrogant swagger. Course, that'd been before Zhivago got his hands on him.

Zhivago... The bastard is probably as clever as Nate (or Sterling, at least) and had Eliot profiled so well he's surprised the man had taken so long to come after him. Then again, being a part of Leverage Consulting & Associates has made Eliot a little soft. Either way, Zhivago had been able to predict every one of Eliot's escape attempts and punish him for it. Wearing him down, wearing him thin. Getting that much closer to killing him.

Eliot won't break. Not now, not for Zhivago. Not for Zhivago's bruised pride over a job Eliot pulled nearly fifteen years ago.

He blinks as the thugs pull him into a well lit room. It's the only room Eliot knows better than his own cell, and from the looks of things this time Zhivago plans on a little water-boarding. Eliot huffs out another laugh – that's what he gets for thinking of all the torture that's better than Sophie Devereux isn't it?

“ _Is something funny?_ ” Zhivago asks in Russian. Eliot just stares back. There were witty retorts at the beginning, after Eliot realized that Zhivago was torturing him to make himself feel better, that there was no information to be bartered or lied about. Eliot's having a hard time moving his jaw just now, though, and his mouth is too dry to form the words anyway. Zhivago steps closer, leans down to look him in the eye. “ _Are you ready to apologize then? Hm? No, I suppose you are not. Your eyes, they do not look very repentant. I do not understand your persistence. Merely a sincere apology, a simple job. I am not unreasonable..._ ” He pauses, watching Eliot's face.

Dissatisfied, Zhivago waves a hand at his men. They aren't gentle as they manhandle Eliot to the table. The restraints are tight, too tight, and the angle of the table alone is making him dizzy. He tries to bite back the panic, to hold out, to hold his breath. He tries to focus on something, on _anything_ other than where he is and what's happening. But he's weak now, and he thrashes despite himself, chest burning with the need to breathe.

The world tips, sliding away even as it's reduced to the rush of water over his face and the rush of blood in his ears. He chokes, still struggling, still _trying_ to breathe, and he can't help but wonder if Nate will ever find out how he died. If when Nate puts the crew back together, he'll call Eliot's phone and wonder why he doesn't answer, or if he'll already know. He hopes Hardison is clever enough to figure it out; the thought of Nate worrying twists in his chest choking off the still small hope that somehow, somehow...

And then it stops.

For a long, confused moment, Eliot wonders if this is what dying is like, dark and absent. But he still hurts, the rough wood at his back digging into his welts, the cuffs digging into his wrists. His ribs, his ankle, his jaw... And he's breathing, sharp and ragged and needy, and he almost weeps. God only knows if it's joy or fear. A soothing hand presses against his face. Eliot blinks, trying to focus, but consciousness is slipping away from him.

“Nate?”

…

Nathan watches him sleep.

It was hard going, finding just the right buttons to push to pay Zhivago off. Especially since it was far too soon yet to risk getting Hardison to do the leg work for him. Zhivago's got a twisted sense of honor, of propriety. Everything is tangled up in his reputation, so it took pulling some strings and calling in some favors. And still... Nate almost didn't make it in time.

He can remember the look of disbelief on Eliot's face, and it makes his stomach turn.

Nate's tempted to pour himself a scotch, but he won't risk sleeping. Not when Eliot might wake up and kill himself just by trying to get up to piss. Or worse, try to leave. He hopes that being in a proper bedroom in a villa on the shore, instead of a hospital room or that dank hole Zhivago had kept him in, will be enough to allay Eliot's singular sense of self preservation. Eliot's stable, at least.

He rubs a hand over his face. Nate _needs_ to sleep, much as he doesn't want to. He'll need to be up before dawn to let in the private physician he's hired to look after Eliot. There's always the chance the man will sell them out to someone else looking for a little vengeance on Eliot Spencer, but Nate can only hope he's hidden them well enough, laid enough of a false trail.

Eliot stirs, his brow furrowing and a soft pained noise slipping past his lips. It's another nightmare; Nate can tell the difference now he's seen true pain painted across Eliot's features. The way his eyes whip back and forth behind his eyelids, his fists tightening in the sheets... Nate can't help but wonder if he's reliving his torture, or if it's something much, much worse.

Nate leans forward to smooth his hair back. He lets his thumb brush across his temple, making soothing noises, and slowly, slowly Eliot relaxes again. All thoughts of sleep vanish as Eliot tips his face into Nate's touch when he starts to pull away. For all the only-almosts they'd had over the years, especially since the Dubenich job, he couldn't bear to move now, to pull away. They'd always pulled away, wasted so much time.

And Nate's made that mistake before. Losing Sam, _failing_ Sam, had nearly killed him. If Eliot had, if he had...

God he could use a drink.

…

Eliot wakes slowly. He feels strangely... comfortable. He runs over his body instinctively, and at first he thinks that it's just a drugged up illusion. But there's a dull ache in his head, in his ribs, so yeah, he's been given painkillers. Just not the really good stuff. He risks cracking an eye open.

He gets a glimpse of soft evening sunlight streaming slanted through the window with a soft breeze. Eliot can smell the sea, can hear the gulls. What's more he's in a bed, a big, plush king sized bed with silk sheets. With someone beside him.

He turns his head just so, slits his other eye open, and then opens his eyes completely. Nate is asleep, stretched out close enough to be just barely touching. One hand rests feather light on Eliot's shoulder, as though to ensure he's still there, still breathing. Nate's head is beside his, his breath warm against his cheek. And then Eliot remembers.

Zhivago. Water-boarding. Nate's face from out of the darkness, pulling him up and grounding him.

_C'mon, El, stay with me._

He watches Nate sleep for a little longer, the tense line of his shoulders, the slow even breaths that didn't seem quite deep enough. It occurs to him that the rest of the team isn't here, that it's just him and Nate. That when Nate came after him, he came alone.

“The hell were you thinkin',” Eliot murmurs. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, and he bites his lip as Nate's eyes blink open.

“You're awake,” Nate says, relief smoothing his features and pulling a little at the corners of his mouth. It's enough to make Eliot forgive him for stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” he says. And ok, fine, he's not doing much better. “How long...”

“Four days,” Nate replied. “Belyayev thought you'd need another week.”

“You been takin' care of me that whole time,” he says. It's only half a question, laced through with surprise. You didn't need to know Nathan Ford for very long to realize he takes care of his own. But this is different.

This is more than that.

Instead of answering, Nate slides his hand up from Eliot's shoulder to cup his jaw, thumb lightly stroking along his bottom lip. His eyes search Eliot's face, maybe trying to memorize it, maybe waiting for Eliot to shrug him off. The quiet stretches between them, nothing in the air but sunlight and the sea. Eliot's eyes start to drift closed again. For a moment he fights it – he's not one for words, maybe, but there's things to say.

“It's alright,” Nate says, leaning close enough to press his lips to Eliot's temple. “I'll be here when you wake up.”


End file.
